The little skiff moved slowly on its course, as if guided by an idle or unskilful hand, and the oars were dipped so lightly and leisurely, that they scarce dimpled the waves, or moved the boat beyond the natural motion of the tide. The earliest blush of morn was spreading along the eastern sky, and faintly tinged the surface of the deep; and, as Arthur watched the progress of the boat, his attention was arrested by the peculiar appearance of the occupant, who, on drawing near the headland, raised himself from a reclining posture, and stood erect, leaning, with one hand, on an upright oar, while he employed the other in lightly steering the boat. His tall figure, habited in the dark garments of a Romish priest, which floated loosely on the air, gave him, as he moved alone upon the solitary deep, a wild, and almost supernatural appearance. His face was continually turned towards the shore, and at times he bowed his head, and folded his hands across his breast, as if absorbed by mental devotion, or engaged in some outward service of his religion.
Arthur could not mistake the person of father Gilbert; nor was he greatly surprised at seeing him there, as he had heard much of his wandering course of life, and knew that he was in the habit of extending his pastoral visits to the remotest cabins of his flock. Stanhope thought it possible he might direct him to La Tour; and he ordered a boat to be got ready immediately, in the hope of overtaking him. But by that time, the priest had disappeared behind the projecting land, and probably proceeded on his voyage with more expedition; for when Stanhope doubled the point, he was no longer visible. Unwilling to give up the pursuit, Arthur continued on, passing through the channel between Craneberry Islands and Mount Desert, and entered a gulf which ran in on the south side of the latter. Almost at the entrance, he discovered a small boat, like the one in question, and from which he had no doubt father Gilbert had just landed.
Leaving the boatmen to wait his return, Stanhope sprang on shore without hesitation, and rapidly followed the windings of a narrow path, though ignorant where it led, and doubtful if it were trodden by wild animals, or by the foot of man. Shortly, the wood, which he traversed, terminated in an open plain, slightly elevated above the waters of the bay, that still murmured on his ear, and glanced brightly through the foliage of some trees which fringed the shore. The spot was rich in verdure, retaining marks of former cultivation, and the trees, which rose to a noble height, were evidently a succession from the earlier monarchs of the forest. Some Jesuit missionaries had taken possession of the place at an early period, planted a cross there, and called it by the name of St. Saviour. But their settlement was soon broken up by a party of English from Virginia, who claimed it for their own king, on the plea of first discovery. It was long after neglected by both nations, and the improvements, which had been commenced, were entirely neglected.
Stanhope's attention was soon arrested by the object of his search. In the midst of the plain still lay the cross, which the English had overthrown; and, close beside it, father Gilbert was kneeling, as motionless, as if life had ceased to animate him. His eyes were fastened on a crucifix, and his pale and haggard countenance wore the traces of that mental anguish, which seemed forever to pursue him. His lips were firmly closed, and every limb and feature appeared so rigid, that Arthur could scarcely repel the dreadful apprehension, that death had seized his victim alone in that solitary spot. He approached him, and was inexpressibly relieved to perceive him start at the sound of his steps, and look round, though with a vacant air, like one suddenly roused from deep and heavy sleep.
"Pardon me, if I intrude, father," said Stanhope; "but I feared you were ill, and came to ask if I could serve you."
"Who are you?" demanded the priest, wildly, and springing from his knees; "who are you, that seek me here,—here, in this spot, consecrated to remorse and sorrow?"
"It is but a few hours since I parted from you," returned Stanhope; "and had I known you purposed coming hither, I would not willingly have left you to cross the waves alone, in that frail boat."
"I know you now, young man," replied the priest, the unnatural excitement of his countenance yielding to its usual calm; "and I thank you for your care; but solitude and gloom are most congenial to me, and I endure the fellowship of men, only in compliance with the duties of my holy office. Leave me," he added; "here, at least, I would be alone."
"This is a dreary place, father"—